Gloriana E-Book

Florence Dixie

• Herausgeber: Enrico Conti
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Lady Florence Caroline Dixie (née Douglas; 25 May 1855 – 7 November 1905), was a Scottish traveller, war correspondent, writer and feminist. Her account of travelling Across Patagonia, her children's books The Young Castaways and Aniwee, or, The Warrior Queen, and her feminist utopia Gloriana, or the Revolution of 1900 all deal with feminist themes related to girls, women, and their positions in society.

Leseprobe

GLORIANAor, the revolution of 1900

Florence Dixie

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Preface.

Maremna’s Dream.

Book 1.

Book 2.

Book 3.

Maremna’s Dream—Concluded.

TO

ALL WOMEN

AND

SUCH HONOURABLE, UPRIGHT, AND COURAGEOUS

MEN

As, regardless of Custom and Prejudice, Narrow-mindedness and Long–Established Wrong, will bravely assert and uphold the Laws of Justice, of Nature, and of Right; I dedicate the following pages, with the hope that a straightforward inspection of the evils abiding Society, will lead to their demolition in the only way possible—namely, by giving to Women equal rights with Men, Not till then will Society be purified, wrongdoing punished, or Man start forward along that road which shall lead to Perfection.

Preface.

“Thus we were told in words Divine

That there were truths men could not bear

E’en from the lips of Christ to hear.

These have now slowly been unfurled,

But still to a reluctant world.

“Prophets will yet arise to teach

Truths which the schoolmen fail to reach,

Which priestly doctrine still would hide.

And worldly votaries deride,

And statesmen fain would set aside.”

I MAKE no apology for this preface. It may be unusual but then the book it deals with is unusual. There is but one object in “Gloriana.” It is to speak of evils which do exist, to study facts which it is a crime to neglect, to sketch an artificial position—the creation of laws false to Nature— unparalleled for injustice and hardship.

Many critics, like the rest of humanity, are apt to be unfair. They take up a book, and when they find that it does not accord with their sentiments, they attempt to wreck it by ridicule and petty, spiteful criticism. They forget to ask themselves, “Why is this book written?” They altogether omit to go to the root of the Author’s purpose; and the result is, that false testimony is often borne against principles which, though drastic, are pure, which, though sharp as the surgeon’s knife, are yet humane; for it is genuine sympathy with humanity that arouses them.

There is no romance worth reading, which has not the solid foundation of truth to support it; there is no excuse for the existence of romance, unless it fixes thought on that truth which underlies it. Gloriana may be a romance, a dream; but in the first instance, it is inextricably interwoven with truth, in the second instance, dreams the work of the brain are species of thought, and thought is an attribute of God. Therefore is it God’s creation.

There may be some, who reading “Gloriana,” will feel shocked, and be apt to misjudge the author. There are others who will understand, appreciate, and sympathise. There are yet others, who hating truth, will receive it with gibes and sneers; there are many, who delighting in the evil which it fain would banish, will resent it as an unpardonable attempt against their liberties. An onslaught on public opinion is very like leading a Forlorn Hope. The leader knows full well that death lies in the breach, yet that leader knows also, that great results may spring from the death which is therefore readily sought and faced. “Gloriana” pleads woman’s cause, pleads for her freedom, for the just acknowledgment of her rights. It pleads that her equal humanity with man shall be recognised, and therefore that her claim to share what he has arrogated to himself, shall be considered. “Gloriana,” pleads that in woman’s degradation man shall no longer be debased, that in her elevation he shall be upraised and ennobled. The reader of its pages will observe the Author’s conviction, everywhere expressed, that Nature ordains the close companionship not division of the sexes, and that it is opposition to Nature which produces jealousy, intrigue, and unhealthy rivalry.

“Gloriana” is written with no antagonism to man. Just the contrary. The Author’s best and truest friends, with few exceptions, have been and are men. But the Author will never recognise man’s glory and welfare in woman’s degradation.

“And hark! a voice with accents clear

Is raised, which all are forced to hear.

’Tis woman’s voice, for ages hushed,

Pleading the cause of woman crushed;

Pleading the cause of purity,

Of freedom, honour, equity,

Of all the lost and the forlorn,

Of all for whom the Christ was born.”

If, therefore, the following story should help men to be generous and just, should awaken the sluggards amongst women to a sense of their Position, and should thus lead to a rapid Revolution it will not have been written in vain.

The Author.

Maremna’s Dream.

Introduction to Gloriana; Or, A Dream of the Revolution of 1900.

A ROSE-RED sunset,

Mingling its radiance with the purple heath,

Flooding the silver lake with blushing light.

Dyeing the ocean grey a crimson hue.

Streaking the paling sky with rosy shafts;

Clinging to Nature with a ling’ring kiss.

Ere it shall vanish from a drowsy earth,

To rouse in new-deck’d cloak of shining gold

A waking world far o’er the ocean’s wave.

Maremna sleeps,

Close cushion’d in the heather’s warm embrace;

The rose-red sunset plays around her form—

A graceful, girlish figure, lithe and fair,

Small, slim, yet firmly knit with Nature’s power—

Unfetter’d Nature! which will not be bound

By Fashion’s prison rules and cultur’d laws.

Maremna sleeps.

One rosy cheek lies pillow’d on her hand,

And through her waving, wandering auburn curls

The zephyr cupids frolic merrily,

Tossing them to and fro upon her brow

In sportive play. It is a brow of thought,

Endow’d by God and Nature, though, alas!

Held in paralysis by selfish laws

Which strive to steal a fair inheritance.

And bid the woman bow the knee to man.

Maremna sleeps.

The white lids veil the large grey, lustrous eyes,

The auburn lashes sweep the sunlit cheeks,

Yet are they wet, and cling to the soft skin

Whereon the damp of tears is glazing fast.

Maremna’s sleep is not the sleep of rest.

For ever and anon the blood-red lips

Unclose, and strive to speak, but yet remain

Silent and speechless, tied by some dread force

Which intervenes, denying to the brain

That comfort which the power of speech doth bring.

Who is Maremna?—

A noble’s child, rear’d amidst Nature’s scenes,

Her earliest friends I They guided her first steps,

Speaking of God and His stupendous works

Long ere Religion’s dogma intervened.

Child of a chieftain o’er whose broad domains

She roamed, a happy, free, unfetter’d waif,

Loving the mountain crag and forest lone,

The straths and corries, rugged glens and haunts

Of the red deer and dove-like ptarmigan;

Loving the language of the torrent’s roar,

Or the rough river’s wild bespated rush;

Loving the dark pine woods, amidst whose glades

The timid roe hides from the gaze of man;

Loving the great grey ocean’s varying face,

Now calm, now rugged, rising into storm.

Anon so peaceful, so serene, and still.

When passion’s fury sinks beneath the wave.

Maremna sleeps

Amidst the scenes that rear’d her early years

Yet is Maremna now no more a child,

Nor guileless with the innocence of youth.

Hers it has been to roam God’s mighty world.

And learn the ways and woful deeds of men.

And, weary with her world-wide pilgrimage,

Maremna’s steps have sought her early haunts.

Hoping for rest where childhood once did play.

Rest for Maremna!

An idle thought; a foolish sentiment!

Unto the brain which God has bidden “Think”

No rest can come from Solitude’s retreat;

For solitude breeds thought, and shapes its course

And bids it live within the form of speech,

Or bids the mighty pen proclaim its life,

And write its words upon the scrolls of men.

Thus with Maremna.

Rest she has sought, hut sought it all in vain.

What God decrees no mortal hand can stay.

“Think.” He ordains, and lo! the brain must think,

Nor close its eyes upon the mammoth truth.

Truth must prevail! Truth must be held aloft!

What matter if the cold world sneers or scoffs?

Sneering and scoffing is the work of man,

Truth, the almighty handiwork of God.

It may be dimm’d, it may be blurr’d from sight.

Yet must it triumph in the end, and win;

For is not truth a sun which cannot die.

Though unbelief may cloud it for a time?

Maremna sleeps;

Sleeps where in childhood oft she lay and dream’d,

Dream’d of fantastic worlds and fairy realms.

And now, in sleep, Maremna dreams again.

But dreams no more of elves and laughing sprites.

Hers, though a dream, is stern reality.

Mingled with visions of a future day;

Hers is a dream of hideous, living wrong,

Wrong which ’tis woman’s duty to proclai

And man’s to right, and right right speedily.

Or crush the form of justice underfoot.

Maremna sleeps.

And in her sleep a vision fills her brain.

This is Maremna’s Dream.

GLORIANA

THE REVOLUTION OF 1900

Book 1.

Chapter 1.

“I AM tired, mother.”

“Tired, child! And why?”

“Mother, I have been spouting to the wild sea waves.”

“And what have you been saying to them, Gloria?”

“Ah, mother! ever so much.”

Let us look at the speakers, a mother and child, the former as she stands leaning against a stone balustrade, which overlooks a small Italian garden, upon which the sun is shining brightly. Far out beyond is the gleaming sea, and on its sparkling, silvery sheen the woman’s eyes are absently fixed as she hearkens to the complaining prattle of the child by her side. She is a beautiful woman is Speranza de Lara, one upon whom Dame Nature has showered her favours freely. As the stranger, looking upon her for the first time, would deem her but a girl in years, and exclaim admiringly at her beauty, it would be difficult to convince him that her age is thirty-five, as in effect it is.

Speranza’s eyes are blue, with the turquoise shade lighting up their clear depths, and a fringe of silky auburn eyelashes confining them within bounds. Her magnificent hair is of a slightly lighter hue, and as the sun plays on the heavy coil that is twisted gracefully upon her noble head, the golden sparks dance merrily around it, like an aureole of gold.

And the child? We must look nearer still at her, for she not only is beautiful, but there is writ upon her face the glowing sign of genius. Like her mother, Gloriana, or, as we shall prefer to call her, Gloria, has blue eyes, but they are the blue of the sapphire, deep in contradistinction to the turquoise shade, which characterises those of Speranza. Auburn eyelashes, too, fringe the child’s wonderful eyes, but again these are many shades darker than the mother’s, while masses of auburn curls play negligently and unconfined, covering the girl’s back like a veil of old-gold. Such is Gloriana de Lara at the age of twelve.

“Won’t Gloria tell mother what that ‘ever so much’ was?”